


feel it in my soul

by phae



Series: AmeriHawk Week: Opposites Attract [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amerihawk Week 2018, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: In a world where your soulmate's pain is your pain, Steve's certainly not lacking in proof that he definitely has one now somewhere out there in the 21st century.





	feel it in my soul

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my [tumblr](http://phaeshmae.tumblr.com/), this is my fill for Day 3 of AmeriHawk Week: Pain or Pleasure.
> 
> Thanks to tayefeth for the prompt! (Steve has no idea how to handle it when Clint hides his injuries.)
> 
> Title is from Fitz and The Tantrums' _The Walker_.

Steve breathes in for an eight-count.

 

“How’d you even know?” Clint gripes, pawing at the IV line tapped down to the back of his hand as soon as the doctor clears the doorway.

 

Steve breathes out for sixteen.

 

Clint flops back in the medbay bed with an affronted sigh. “I didn’t tell anybody I got hit, and I _know_ I didn’t do anything to give it away, so how’d you find out?”

 

Steve’s fingers curl in, bunching up the fabric of his pants as they slowly scrape along his thighs.

 

Clint twitches and shakes out his legs.

 

Steeling himself with one more deep breath, Steve shifts forward on the rickety chair they leave in the corner to discourage visitors from overstaying their welcome and untucks his shirt from the back before carefully beginning to unbutton it, pushing each closure through the eye with too much precision.

 

“Uh, Cap?” Clint butts in hesitantly. “You okay there? Oh, wait. Is this the drugs? What the hell’d they _give_ me? ‘Cause, no joke, I could swear you’re stripping right--”

 

Steve peels the edges of the shirt back to reveal the mottled bruise spreading around his right side and up his abdomen, the skin there an odd mix of purple to green to yellow with the serum working to heal the injury that’s not really there, only a reflection of Clint’s own.

 

“That’s--uh. Just like--me.” One hand hovering over the bandages wrapping around his side, Clint continues to stare at Steve’s stomach. Steve’s never before been struck by the desire to snap at someone that his _face is up here, thank you_ , but he’s suddenly all too familiar with the urge.

 

Clint blinks. His mouth drops open and his brow wrinkles up contemplatively. He blinks again. Closes his mouth. Opens once again and-- “Huh.”

 

Steve’s been dreading this reveal for weeks now. When he’d first woken up, it hadn’t taken him long to realize he was being plagued with knocks and bruises that weren’t his own. It was somewhat surreal, having aimed the Valkyrie into the deep, deep depths knowing full well he wasn’t leaving a soulmate behind, then waking up seventy years in the future to one that very much existed.

 

He’d worried, at first, that he’d slept through what was meant to be their life together. That his soulmate was now getting on in age, clumsily bumping into this and that as their faculties began to degrade, the marks popping up briefly on Steve’s skin as a sick reminder of what was meant to be but never would.

 

But then he’d begun to see a pattern, a link between the ghosts of wounds plaguing his skin and Clint’s constant chain reactions of little disasters.

 

He’s not surprised Clint’s never noticed before this. He’s more than just accident-prone, from what Steve’s been able to observe in the last few months. He’s always covered in band-aids and gauze, always smells faintly of antiseptic. In the field or in training, he always comes across as grace personified, a perfect complement to Natasha’s fluid fighting style, but in every other aspect of his life, Clint’s oblivious to the obstacles in his way.

 

Steve noticed, though. He’s been compiling the evidence, enlisting JARVIS’s help in tracking Clint’s injuries and Steve’s corresponding marks. It’s definitely Clint, Steve’s soulmate. And now Clint--knows.

 

“I, uh,” Clint finally manages to stutter out, his expression morphing into one of intense concern. “I could try and kiss it better?”

 

Steve's instantly gobsmacked, because nowhere in the many times he’s imagined this scene, has Clint’s reaction been anywhere close to that. Granted, Clint ideally wasn’t supposed to be doped up on painkillers when the truth came out, but--beggars, choosers, it is what it is.

 

And then Steve’s laughing, more than just a touch hysterically.

 

There’re tears building up in the corners of his eyes, and Steve slumps forward and brings a hand up to hide his face.

 

“Steve?” Clint calls out, and it’s that same heartbreaking tone that Peggy’s voice held, that last conversation, and it just tips Steve over the edge--

 

“I didn’t think I had anyone,” Steve gasps out. “Growing up. I mean, it made sense back then. Every year I was coming down with something the doctors swore would have me on Death’s door before the month was up, but I just kept bouncing back.” Steve’s breath starts coming out as fast as the words are clawing up his throat. “And then the serum, and the crash, and I woke up, and there was _you_ , only I didn’t know it was you at first, and--”

 

Steve’s voice breaks on a sob.

 

“Aw, Steve, no,” Clint whispers, the words right there in Steve’s ear, and there’re arms wrapped around his head, cradling him close.

 

“What are you doing?” Steve sputters, pulling back to glare up at Clint through blurry eyes. “Get back in bed!”

 

“No way,” Clint protests, wiggling his way in between Steve’s arms, pushing him back and situating himself atop Steve’s lap, doing his best to wrap his whole body around Steve’s. “You need a hug way more than I need more pain meds.”

 

Steve swallows roughly around the ball of emotion stuck in his throat. “I strongly beg to differ,” he replies hoarsely, but his arms come up to encircle Clint and keep him there all the same.

 

“Skin contact with your soulmate is a natural painkiller,” Clint insists as he rubs his cheek against the top of Steve’s head, mussing up his hair. “There’s studies.”

 

Steve chokes out a laugh. “What studies?”

 

“Shhhhh.” Clint pets at Steve’s arms clumsily as he shushes him. “The drugs are def-o kicking in now. I’m fine. Super fine. Super fine right here.”

 

Steve lets his eyes fall shut, huffs out a disbelieving breath, and holds his soulmate close.


End file.
